entrancelogs | (no subject)

Who: Clint Barton; Dean Winchester
Where: Floor 5 room 5.
When: May 28th, late afternoon/evening-ish.
Rating: PG to be safe. Language. Also alcohol.
Summary: Just when you've been needing a drink all day you pass by a bar on your way upstairs. Who could say no to that?
The Story:
What a day. No, really not much else to be said about it: what a day. Abducted to a place fresh out of a children's book, introduced to it by the greatest detective in all of fiction. Then invited in for lemonade like all this was the most normal thing in the world.

Clint had really thought he'd seen crazy, after Steve Rogers on ice, after the Hulk, after the Tesseract, after Loki, after the Chitauri. He'd have to readjust his standards, the way things were looking. Eventually he'd given up and trudged up the stairs - if he was going to have a room, if he got to pick his room, it'd be somewhere at the top. Unless this house had as many floors as each floor had rooms, in which case... well, he'd walk a while.

Except, one door stood out from the rest. A play of light a seethrough pane a view of a room behind it and did that look like a bar?

It did. Godsend.

Clint opened the door, instinctively glancing around the room for anyone he hadn't spotted yet.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Dean and Philip's Classy-Ass Bar (TM) is the new Wonderland hotspot. Not just for the crazy, rebellious teenagers roaming the halls (because let's face it, it wasn't started for them, but they're welcome enough), but for those adults seeking a reprieve from a long day of Wonderland-doings.

Dean himself is currently tending said classy-ass bar, a towel thrown over one shoulder as he cleans another glass. It's nice to do something around here, even if it isn't hunting.

"'Sup."

He doesn't look up, but the heavy footsteps translate to:

Male, Mid-to-Late Twenties, Probably needs a beer.

"Whaddaya have?"

He's about to ask what they've got, before he catches himself right, everything. "Beer'd be a start," he says instead, and plops down in front of the bar with a sigh.

A start, a. because there's no SHIELD to call him for a mission in the ungodly hours of a hungover morning, b. because nothing's exploding right this second, and c. because he just got here and what the hell is this. Getting laid would be an alternative to getting drunk, but given the population, that wasn't about to happen.

Given the population? Yeah, there aren't too many options, unfortunately. None that are legal, anyway. Taken or underage is the general Wonderland rule.

Dean gets a glass of whatever's on tap (generic Wonderland-flavor) and slides it across the counter, scrutinizing his 'customer.'

"So when did you get here, newbie?"

"Couple hours ago." Clint looks back at him as he grabs the glass, not minding the scrutiny. In fact he returns it in kind, but not for long, just raises his glass and drinks, half emptying it, before setting it back down firmly.

Deciding the beer could be worse, he lets out a sigh before looking back at the guy manning the bar.

"Clint Barton. You are?"

...Dean can't shake the feeling that there's something weirdly familiar about Clint's name. Clint Barton. Clint Barton. Where the Hell has he heard it before?

This is going to bother him.

He pours himself a shot of whiskey and knocks it back, wrinkling his nose.

"Dean Winchester. What's your line of work?"

Eyebrows go up at the question, and for a brief moment of complete insanity he considers telling. Then he remembers the director would probably, rightfully, personally see to his punishment if he did.

"Archery," he says instead, which isn't quite a lie. It kept him breathing, after all, one way or another. "Well, mostly teaching it these days. What about you?"

"...archery, right," Dean snorts, but doesn't ask anymore questions. With some people, you just know not to pry too far. And hey, they just met. He flips a rag over one shoulder.

"I hunt monsters and ghosts for a livin'."

Clint considered a quip. About how he wasn't really dressed up fancily enough to get called a hero, about how archery still was well respected enough as a sport, about anything, really. Instead, he emptied his beer, arching an eyebrow at Dean once he'd set the glass down.

"Yeah? How's that working for you?"

Hell, norse Gods, aliens, why not monsters and ghosts too?

"Not too shabby. S'a little difficult here, 'cause there sure as Hell ain't much call for a monster-hunter, but I get by."

To demonstrate as such, Dean gets himself a beer, too.

"You got paranormal crap in your world?"

Edited 2012-06-10 03:54 (UTC)

"Depends. Do you count aliens? We got a few of those recently. In all it's more on the science side than the supernatural, but the line can get blurry." He'd drink to his fellow Avengers, but his glass is sadly empty. Ah well.